


litteras amore

by EvilMuffins



Category: Dangan Ronpa, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: (but not really), Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet Collection, Love Letters, M/M, Secret Admirer, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-03-09 14:08:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13483086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilMuffins/pseuds/EvilMuffins
Summary: "But hey,” Ouma bounced up on his toes, placing his hands over top of Saihara’s where he still clutched the scarf. “Wouldn’t you say that a love letter is kind of like a ransom note for a person’s heart? Have I finally stolen your heart, Saihara-chan? Oh boy! I have, haven’t I?”---A Saiouma prompt fic collection!





	1. Love letters

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt 'secret admirer'  
> \---  
> I decided to turn this into a collection for any saiou prompts that come in on my tumblr, so apologies if you've seen this first story already!

"More presents?” Ouma cocked his head to the side, blinking as he considered the scarf held out toward him, “This is the third you’ve hoisted onto this week! Are you, like, my secret admirer or something?”

“What?” Saihara took a step backward. “I just wanted to-“

Ouma ignored him, taking two steps nearer for the taller boy’s one. “Because if you are, you’re doing a lousy job at it. You’re supposed to slip it under my door, along with a note made up of letters cut up from different newspapers…oh wait, that’s a ransom note. Whoopsie! But hey,” Ouma bounced up on his toes, placing his hands over top of Saihara’s where he still clutched the scarf. “Wouldn’t you say that a love letter is kind of like a ransom note for a person’s heart? Have I finally stolen your heart, Saihara-chan? Oh boy! I have, haven’t I?””

Before Saihara- red faced and lips parted to speak- could manage a reply, Ouma snatched the scarf away from him, before bounding straight back to slip away into his dorm room for the night.

Flopping backward on the bed, although taking care to avoid poking his back on the horse mask staring dolefully up at him, Ouma held the scarf up the light. It was nothing special, just another piece of useless crap spit out by the Monomono Machine- especially seeing as how their little gilded cage was so perfectly climate controlled and all- but it still held onto the warmth from Saihara’s perpetually sweaty hands.

Ouma buried his face into the fabric, pretending to himself for a moment that he could still smell the scent- dusty old books intermingled with a chemical whiff of poisons from his lab- lingering from boy he had fallen in love with. Rolling over, Ouma neatly folded the present, before placing it on the shelf beside his bed alongside the other things Saihara had given him, taking care to keep them separate from the evidence he had managed to gather.

Settling himself back down, Ouma gave the wax statue suspended above his bed a gentle nudge with his toe, watching as it spun slowly. It was impossible to pretend that Amami was anything near the same as Saihara, but having something in the room to bounce ideas off of helped him to feel less lonely on the nights he stayed up , which were most of them now.

With a sigh, Ouma dragged himself back up off of the bed. Each night, it was getting harder and harder to lie to himself that he wasn’t tired, especially not since having his brains bashed in before the last trial. Maybe someone should crack his head open again, and then he could finally get some rest. As things were now, his brain wouldn’t shut up.

He could solve this, he could beat this. For himself, for Saihara, he would win the this game.

Settling down at his desk, he took up a pencil- one that had been sharp and unused when arrived, now worn down dull and nubby- and began to write.

Should anything happen to him, Saihara would search his room, just as any good detective should. These notes, these clues, the script that he had begun- stacks of love letters left behind by a secret admirer.

 

 


	2. End of the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I combined prompts for this one- 'Kiss because the world is ending' and 'kiss on a falling tear'

 

“What’s the last thing you ever want to do before you die?” One of his fellow DICE members had asked once, during a late-night game of Truth or Dare.

“Bold of you to assume that I _can_ die,” Ouma had replied, kicking his legs up over the side of his make-shift throne (really little more than a rolling chair draped in a moth-eaten velvet curtain). 

The girl snorted, pouring out another glass of Panta, holding it at arm’s reach from where the Supreme Leader lounged. “What’s the one thing you want to do before the world ends, then?”

Ouma smirked, allowing his expression to speak before his mouth did as he bought himself a few seconds to concoct a lie. He had never really thought about it before. Not that the prospect of death had never crossed his mind, but he had always assumed that he’d meet his end pulling some stunt, rather than under the kind of circumstance where he might have time to make preparations beforehand.

His mind flashed back to school that afternoon, catching a glimpse of one of his classmates slobbering all over some girl behind a tree in the courtyard.

“I guess I’d have to saaaay,” Ouma’s hand darted forward, snatching the plastic goblet from his friend’s hand, “Be kissed by a cute guy!”

* * *

 

The world had already ended.

To say that things could get any more dire would be an utter lie, and Ouma hated liars.

Whatever Saihara were to say to him- whatever words of rejection he had stewing in his head since the end of the trial, _since they had first met-_ there was no way that they could ever compare to the crushing grief of having found out what lay beyond that door leading to the outside.

So why, then, did Ouma continue to stare at the door to Saihara’s dorm room, frozen still as a corpse?

He would knock on the door, Saihara would open it, and reject him completely. After that, he could get on with his plan, the looming shadow of his feelings for the other boy no longer eclipsing his mind.

One of the others would find him soon, if he lingered there any longer. Himiko would wander out into the hall and scream, or Kiibo would pull some kind of robo-mecha crap on him, or Maki would just flat out kill him. There was no doubt in his mind about it.

“Is someone out there?”

Ouma didn’t reply.

If he kept silent, would Saihara keep speaking?

He wanted to hear that soft voice for as long as possible, before he was no longer able.

The door handle clicked, deafening.

“Ouma-kun?” Saihara’s voice held no edge of anger, and Ouma wondered for a brief moment if the detective was just as good of a liar as he was.

“Ah, Saihara-chan!” Ouma said, feigning surprise as if he had picked a room at random for what would be likely be one of his final human interactions.

What had he been planning to say? He was so, so tired…

An image flashed into his head, of just simply pushing past Saihara, and flopping face-first down onto his bed. Maybe Saihara would join him, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and assuring him that all of this was just a fucked up, fever-induced, nightmare.

The corners of Ouma’s eyes began to itch, prickle, Saihara growing wavy and blurry before him as tears began to well. It was a sensation that had become far too familiar in the past forty-eight hours, so different from the show of playful crocodile tears he had been so used to performing.

His vision dipped into further distortion as he suddenly found his face pressed up into something warm, comforting.

Saihara was holding him tightly, he registered, before attempting to pull himself free.

‘ _I don’t want this!’_

_‘I came here to kill you!’_

_‘I hate you!’_

The parade of lies died on his lips as Saihara ducked his head, kissing away a tear that had yet to travel down Ouma’s cheek.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> https://evil-muffins.tumblr.com/


End file.
